Interview with Little Bird Coming Up
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

It's been a hectic week. Dayton's gone up in flames and the President's just got caught up in a nasty scandal--see this nation burn in hell before letting it join the CCD? Hey, I like the dedication but he could have phrased it a lot better. Not looking good for re-election. Anyways, I've gotten a request from Jon Little Bird for an online interview while he's in Moscow representing the Minutemen in a debate on CCD law.

Most of you are probably scratching your heads right now and wanting to ask me, "Mr. Trace, who in God's name is Jon Little Bird?" Those of you living within a hundred miles of an Indian reservation probably already know him well--love him or hate him. The fact is, he's famous for standing up for the little guy. And you can't get much littler than the Native American minority in this country.

Jon Little Bird graduated Yale law in a year, with the highest honor they've ever bestowed. He's been the Council for Native Americans' number one legal attack dog whenever their treaties with the U.S. are breached, and from what I can see he has won almost every case he's taken on. Even ignoring his performance at Yale, when you consider how often the concerns of Amerindians get sidelined in this country that's a very impressive record. And he's going to the heart of the CCD to debate the Minutemen's status as a terrorist group.

Of course, the opinion of the judiciary system in the CCD matters about as much to their executive branch as the opinion of Piers Morgan--when is he going to retire?--does to ours here. But according to Little Bird, if you convince enough of the people that Ascendancy's acting out of line, he'll have to revoke the status in order to save face. 

I've made my opinion on the matter of the Minutemen being considered a terrorist group known in the past. It's ridiculous that what is essentially a cluster of activists has been labelled terrorists. It's a clear ploy by the CCD to crush dissenting opinions. Little Bird asked me to interview him in order to give the plight of the Minutemen greater exposure on the world stage. How could I refuse?

<small>Editor's note: The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 12 PM EST</small>

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag:

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

Nikolai sat at a spacious, historical desk.  It was a relic of the Russian regime, one of many pieces the Ascendancy chose to preserve during the capital’s evolution over the last twenty-five years.  Centered in the heart of his government, and positioned in the center of this very room, it, along with every inch of the space around him, was designed to dwarf and belittle those who dared approach. 

It was from this room he held conferences with equivalent offices around the world; equivalent in name-only.  From this exact vantage, heads of state met the eyes of the man who forged the greatest empire in history.  And shuddered. 

As soon as his current call ended, he leaned back thoughtfully.  His posture had been tall and militant before.  Now, his state relaxed since he was no longer being broadcast to Washington DC.  Theirs was meant to be a private conversation: a secure, live call between himself and the President of the United States. 

However, Nikolai immediately flicked his thoughtful gaze to one of the men standing opposite.  To one of several who had been off-camera, he signaled with a firm nod.  The young man was suited, the Ascendancy maintained a mandatory dress-code for those in his perimeter, but he was clearly uncomfortable in the high-profile company.  But as this engineer was one of the best, which was why he was recruited to the greatest office in the world to begin with, the Ascendancy could forgive the idiosyncrasies of a scientist. 

The man nodded, scratched at his hair nervously then turned to begin directing line after line of code into a glass projected panel on the wall.  At his direction, the security connection in their broadcast system momentarily weakened.  Then he confirmed the presence of no less than a dozen hackers within a few seconds.  Just long enough for any one of them to download and rebroadcast what should have been a secure video transmission between himself and President Dawson.  Another signal, and moments later, the appropriate firewalls were reinstated. 

“Done sir.” 

The video was leaked.

”Thank you.  That will be all, Carl.”  Nikolai waved his Press Attendant and Media Privilege to the desk.  Carl gathered his things and left. 

***


"Mister President, our intelligence sources the Minutemen as the terrorists responsible for this accident as seeking to blight my arrival to Dayton--undermining the entire Summit." Nikolai had claimed, sitting straight and true, hands folded against the edge of his desk, only a few minutes ago. 

"Of course you would say that, Brandon," the President spit, foregoing the honorific use the Ascendancy’s title.  By now, both powers were aware the Dayton Disaster was no mere accident.  The party responsible was still a matter of debate.

Nikolai opened his palms briefly and in doing so demonstrated his desire to maintain their dialogue, "How many more of these reactors, these untested technologies will you inflict upon your own people before you see reason, Frederick?"

The President narrowed his gaze, offended and disgusted by the logic any common man could abide. 

Nikolai continued calmly, "I am submitting my proposal for USA-to-Custody annexation to your House of Representatives once more.  The American people deserve the chance to think for themselves, rather than you holding them hostage.  As it once was, in the time of the Founding Fathers, New York City will a capital again.  This time of the newly established Dominance VIII.  To maintain democratic culture, the DVIII Patron will be nominated by popular vote.  And--"

The President could take no more of this.  He slammed his palms upon his own desk in the Oval Office and stood, leaning into the camera, voice thin and cold.  "How dare you speak of our Founding Fathers.  I would let the entire nation burn in hell, every child ripped from their mother's arms, and every carcass left to rot in the fields before betraying the noble sacrifice of their great Revolution.  This conversation is over."  The screen went black.  Nikolai remained calm while facing the temper of his greatest enemy.

Then he signaled the uncomfortable engineer...


***

It was a political move of course.  Back and forth on a dangerous chess board they played. 

Nikolai anticipated President Dawsons reaction to their conversation, and he anticipated the media’s reaction to the video as soon as hackers generated a sell to the highest bidder.  It would soon spread worldwide, if it hadn’t already.  That video, of the President of the United States behaving as a schoolboy outraged at the patience of his taskmaster, would undermine the rest of the man’s questionable authority, but it was the cold-blooded admission which would execute his Administration: he would rather see the flesh of his country rot from its bones than give up his power. 

Congressional members of the same party up for reelection would distance themselves, financial backers would go dark, and dissent would mildew the White House walls.  As an incumbent going into election season, Dawson likely hammered himself into his own coffin behaving as he had.  Using the choice words he had; and the media only cared about headlines, not context...  You reap what you sow, Nikolai recalled his father’s dying schema with a faint smile.

Which meant it was now time to collect the President’s future competition.

Nikolai turned to his Press Attendant, ”Now. Get Nolan Trace here.” 

“Yes, Ascendancy.”

As the two men departed, Nikolai reluctantly released the fury of life he’d wielded during the taping.  He often reached for it when dealing with the public.  His senses were sharpest, his mind quickest when centered so.  It cast his expression with the edge of an unseen aura and many a man avoided meeting his gaze when he was so clad with power: Mister Trace included -- who turned aside and rubbed his temple.  Weak and predictable.

Yet ever since that ill-fated interview, a shard of doubt worked at the edge of Nikolai’s impenetrable consciousness.  A splinter which dug in a little more deeply every time he heard his own title.  He was an ascendant man; he was the god of prophecy; he was doing what was right.  The world needed him.

He rose, buttoning his suit coat.  ”Inform the State Office, he announced.  I’m going to the Facility.”  He left and a team of security agents fell in step alongside him. 

He must have been mistaken about Trace; about what he felt. 

Soon the man would be in Moscow.  Soon he would find out.

Continued from: Browsing

The camera that should have overlooked the service tunnel entrance near the Guardian hospital was broken. And had been for months, from what Chief Inspector Drayson could determine. It took the better part of his morning interviewing a selection of nearly two dozen department managers, shift supervisors, and work crew chiefs regarding the half dozen worker reports about the broken camera, and a dozen more made by one particularly astute security guard whose job it was to stare at the video feeds all day. But not a single work order had ever been signed off on.

By the end of the interviews, he had narrowed it down to gross incompetence, and one department manager was sure to loose his job. Those cameras were installed both for security and for people's safety. And of course, a critical piece of information was missing from the puzzle he was piecing together because of it. He could now only guess the missing heart-surgery patient and his friend had come through there.

Luckily, in his investigation, one of the crew chiefs had proven himself an intelligent and all together likeable fellow. Apparently also well liked by some of the squatter communities that lived in a region that was deservingly coined the 'undercity.' The camera might have been broken, and no city crews had reported anything out of the ordinary, but the folks that lived in the tunnels and forgotten places under the city might have seen something. For a price, likely.

He doubted they would even be willing to speak to him, but with the crew chief along, a familiar and friendly face, it would hopefully open a few doors to him. In the early afternoon, Drayson met the crew chief and two of his underlings at the tunnel, arriving in time to watch them finish the repairs on the camera. Pleasantries were shared, and then they loaded into the specially designed service truck, more of a larger then normal buggy, and they started down the tunnel. There were bars and a gate, but it hadn't been properly locked in all the time the camera had been broken. And would remain unlocked for another week or two, with a newly mounted signing proclaiming as much, to allow those who had been frequenting this place at night a chance to adjust. No point trapping anyone down there.

Academically, Drayson was aware of just how sprawling Moscow's undercity was. He would occasionally read reports from other departments of the more interesting discovires; old and empty armouries, facilities, bunkers, and metro lines repurposed to meth labs, opium dens, illegal immigrant camps and the like. The costs of the clean up was astronomical, he was sure.

His first day was spent on a tour, with little time given over to trying to find any leads. The crew chief familiarized Drayson a bit with life underground, comparing their location with above ground landmarks, and he was suitably impressed with just how huge the place really was. The utility maps were a pain to try and understand at first, but the more they travelled the more he began to recognize how it all worked.

It was on his second day beneath Moscow's streets that the real work began. Again paired with the crew chief and some of the men in his department, they began to visit some of the more regularly inhabited regions; old metro stations or bomb shelters seemed the most favoured. The locals were hard pressed to warm up to Drayson's presence, and eventually he decided to just give the crew chief the sorts of questions he had, and let the man work his reputation to Drayson's aid.

Leads were few and far between. The people who lived down there were understandably upset; the city improvements were forcing them farther from the city center or further underground. Both made it harder for them to earn money from panhandling, forced them farther from known and trusted soup kitchens and shelters. But that was the price of improvement; the work created more jobs, which should have meant fewer people living in the underground city. But it never seemed to work that way.

Rather then full on leads, they began to piece together a rather unpleasant picture; people would go missing in the tunnels. Mostly if alone, or in pairs. Not terribly surprising; such things were expected to happen and was likely the work of gangs, but Drayson didn't dismiss it off hand. The stories were varied of course; metro dogs eating people, ghosts in the walls, giant rats, alligators, Jack the Ripper-esque murderers. Everyone had their own excuse, and by the end of that second day Drayson just had a notepad full of urban legends.


Edited by Drayson, Aug 11 2013, 07:03 PM.

Home. After a long day. Between Rune’s new commission and Thalia’s outstanding work and projects, the time had inexplicably gushed through her fingers like sand, and there was still so much to do; she’d had to prise herself away from her studio when the shadows had finally deepened enough for her to take heed. After catching herself squinting between blue and turquoise, it’d occurred to her to check her Wallet for the time. Then double check in disbelief. Thal generally didn’t like taking the metro late at night, though sometimes it couldn’t be helped. There were only a few stops between Arbatskaya and Filevsky Park anyway. Tonight the carriage had almost been empty.

Her apartment was all grey shadows within. Trinkets and books lined shelves on most of the free walls, hugging the darkness to their cores, and a bit of light from the window caressed the edges of furniture. Thalia dumped her keys in a bowl on a sideboard, yanked the satchel over her head and let that fall too, then pulled off her boots one at a time on her way to the sofa. Where she crashed, unceremoniously. Paint still flecked her fingernails - she could feel it - and probably curled in the ends of her hair too. I’ll shower tomorrow. A yawn cracked her jaw. Though I should probably call Aylin. Which she had absolutely every intention of doing, the moment she could regroup the energy to decipher which shadow hid the bag that contained her Wallet. And the further bit of effort it would take to get up and actually retrieve it.

She blinked for a long time at the offending shadow, until the blinks became slower and the darkness lulled her. She fell asleep.

[Continued at "Glimmers of a Dream"]

Jon lay down on the stiff, olive-drab Army issue folding cot that had been provided him in this small tent. What was he doing out of the courtroom and in the middle of a rolling field blanketed with hundreds upon hundreds of tents, with the drone of old Diesel generators permeating the silence and drowning out the crickets, providing barely enough power to keep a solitary bulb flickering dimly above him?

No, he knew what he was doing. He was keeping his cause alive merely by being present.

The ink had scarcely been dry upon the Supreme Court decision Jon had won declaring the removal of the Seminoles from their lands in Florida unconstitutional when the meltdown in Dayton had happened. Such a horrible thing; the very land having become poisoned by radiation to where it would kill those who sought to live there. Something must be done. Native Americans still had the ability to offer aid and comfort in some places. Additionally the pragmatic side of Jon reasoned it would be good PR for the Council of Native Americans to be seen rushing to help the Americans.

It had taken some convincing to do, but soon Jon had the CNA approaching tribes with lands bordering Ohio with appeals to aid the stricken in the disaster. The Potowatomi in particular had two reservations a scant two hours' drive from Dayton, and even in recent years had still managed to hold onto thousands of acres of virgin meadows and rolling pasture land.

The refugees hadn't taken much convincing to come. The Red Cross and National Guard had also been eager to accept the use of land strategically significant to helping those in the disaster area. With the influx of so many strangers, though, and many tribal members already wary of thieves and interlopers...well, tempers were bound to flare and altercations were sure to happen. Jon had decided that he was needed to be present in order to keep the peace.

That wasn't what kept Jon up at this hour, though. He had medicine for that, if it came to it. It was such an easy thing, to...nudge...a person's inclinations to become more agreeable with him. It seemed to be most effective when he could find a reason that person would naturally want to go along with him. No, what bothered him was the twin messages he continued to stare at on his Wallet. This particular model was top of the line, and needed for him to get reception in such a remote location.

One message was from the Minutemen, of all groups. Apparently Jon had gained some reputation of sticking up for the “little guy” after his victory in the Supreme Court. They claimed they were seeking his representation in order to free certain bank assets frozen since the CCD had declared the organization a terrorist group. Jon wasn't sure what to make of that. He could, in a way, sympathize with the organization. Many of the native tribes had resisted coming under the custody of the United States government, and perhaps for good reason: though the resistance in face of a greater power was ultimately futile, the spirit of the Indian was tramped down as his people had become essentially wards of the State. It had scattered his people, and put them in the position they now were, defenseless against interlopers and dependent upon another sovereign who might ignore the promises it made on a whim.

If Jon were to offer his services to the Minutemen, he would essentially have to get the CCD to reverse its declaration. Difficult, but there were ways. He would have to study CCD law further, and of course become recognized as a legal practitioner of their law to do so.

Which led to his second message: an invitation from the University at Moscow, the heart at the CCD, to participate in a debate on sovereignty and international treaty law in today's world. According to the invitation Jon was seen as having a unique perspective in this matter, having come from a people already under the custody of another sovereign state yet also being a people whose own sovereignty was – in letter – established as inviolate. Should he travel to Moscow to participate in this?

Perhaps he could work both angles.

Jon had to learn more before committing to any course of action. Careful as always, he needed more information. So he put his Wallet aside and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The flickering of the Great Spirit manifested itself, singing to him, as it often did these days, but he ignored it for the time being and opened the other pathway with his third eye.

Jon stepped out of his body and into the Spirit World.

This place had almost become familiar to him, now. He strode from his tent, knowing to be wary, now. There were dangers here. Bruises and scrapes earned in previous visits had manifested themselves upon awakening before. It had not been difficult to reach the conclusion that he might as well really be in this reflection of the waking world. He had to be careful.

Jon's clothes shifted in this place, sometimes changing or disappearing altogether. It took concentration to maintain any particular look he was going for, but less so for one that suited his current mood. Oddly enough he found himself appearing this time as a traditional Apache scout, clothed in darken boots and breeches with an equally drab beige loincloth and shirt, his mouth and nose hidden by a cloth wrapped loosely from ear to ear. Odd, but he let it stay.

Jon ducked out of his tent into the open air. Here there was no moonlight but instead a soft glow that gently illuminated his surroundings. This must be because the moon itself was a transient object but its light was often present at night and thus must be more easily reflected in the Spirit World.

Jon turned away from the sky, and – he still wasn't sure how he did it – sought his destination, and shifted.

He found himself before a gray and alabaster behemoth of a structure. Testament to the old Soviet days, Jon supposed. Were those eyes watching him from the ever present darkness? He shrugged it off and walked inside.

He found himself among halls that flickered and changed in an eyeblink. Messages on bulletin boards came and went, and it was no use trying to read the video displays. Surely this was a busy place in the waking world.

Jon found himself inside a professor's study and idly rifled through papers on the desk. These also tended to disappear, and sometimes the wording changed. Still, he was able to glimpse enough to gain a semblance of the picture. Legal essays, mostly, at this desk. Students arguing the right of the CCD to bring other nations under the umbrella of security. Little dissenting arguments to be seen.

Jon breathed – although he wasn't certain he had taken a single other breath in this place, or needed to – and shifted himself upward, finding himself in a grand library. Books, thousands of books, lining walls so high ladders were needed to reach them all. He looked to a table and noticed it contained several manuscripts upon it. They made as if to move – and Jon somehow willed one to come to him. A recently used artifact, he supposed, to shift about as he walked here.

Jon leafed through the manuscript, and through several others he'd found. Uneasiness returned to him, an itching behind his shoulder blades. There were eyes watching him from somewhere. But that was not all that unsettled him. He'd read enough. Clearly from the essays he'd read the majority opinion of the law here was that which was of the whim of the Ascendancy and his confidants was good as law. Security triumphed sovereignty here.

And the CNA was thinking of reaching out to the CCD? For what? To trade one warden for another? One overlord for another? Who could say the CCD would have any better influence to protect native American interests than the increasingly impotent United States did? And what if, as often spoken of in certain circles, the United States ceded to them first? Would the native Americans become powerless wards of a puppet warden then, having been stripped of even the decision over whether they should maintain sovereignty or surrender themselves?

Those eyes Jon couldn't see were still watching him. He knew it. It was almost enough for him to seek out the flickering flame that was the Great Spirit and send fires to all corners of the room. Instead he just shook his head. The questions he'd had upon walking the Spirit World had been mostly answered, at least for tonight. No use sticking around. He turned, and imagined himself back in his sleeping body, and drifted off.

First, real sleep. He would act when he woke.


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 6 2013, 04:21 AM.

I'd like to point out that if you write in Word and use the auto formatting feature in Word you need to read through your posts and add in extra spacing. Cause your paragraphs are all running together and it's REALLY hard to read.

To make word stop doing that try using the No Spacing formatting option which will then require you to put in an extra space. Tabs don't work on forums cause browsers remove all extra white space when writing text to the screen.

The early morning sunlight streamed in the window. Rivers of dust and lint seemed to dance in the beams of light. The window was a good 3 feet above the table where a man sat.
An older man paced the room behind him. Back and forth, wall to wall, the man paced. Not fast, nor impatient ...pacing was simply what he was doing at present.
The younger man held his forehead in his hands. Stress winkled his face as he continued to stare and search through the texts laid before him on the table.
All night they had been studying. All night and the past week, they had been studying and training.
Punit was 26 years old, a full Atharim for the past 6 years, and yet instead of being out there, doing his work, he was in here, with this man who was proving to be a tyrant of scholarship.
He had been invited to come to Moscow to study with The Regus because of his stellar reputation. He was deadly as an assassin. He specialized in Rakshasa. He loved hunting these specters of the night. He loved following them and hunting them. That magic moment when hunting prey when you began to think like them and understand their movements. That point when you were one ... Right before the kill. He lived for that moment, that rush.
And he was no dummy either. He had studied about the Rakshasa in the Caucus Mountains and in the jungles of Malaysia and Indonesia. He specialized in the creatures. He read everything he could find on those soulless creations. He hated them, despised them. They had taken more than their share of Atharim, and Punit was determined to do his best to destroy as many as he could.
He had been annoyed at first at being taken off his chosen path to stop and come to Moscow. Of course, one did not turn down a meeting with The Regus, and Punit was honored, but still ... He had Rakshasa to hunt and kill.
So for a week, Punit and the Regus had lived in this room. Morning and night. They slept in periods of 4 hour blocks. The rest was studying, or sparring in the yard. The Regus had been tougher and more deadly than Punit had suspected because of his age. Punit nursed several bruises on his leg and torso, and his shoulder had been strained and dislocated at one point. It throbbed now. He would need the ice pack again, if he ever was allowed to sleep again. They hadn't taken a break from the studies all night. Since they had showered after coming in from practice the afternoon before, it had been constant study. Punit was tired and irritable.
"Do you have your answer?", the older man asked.
"I keep coming with the same translation," Punit responded, a note of exasperation in his voice.
"Not acceptable. Keep reading," The Regus said with steel-like authority.
Punit sighed audibly, rolled his eyes and went back to the books before suddenly slamming them closed and staring at the blank wall below the window.
"You have an issue?" Regus asked calmly, without turning around, or ceasing his pacing.
"The translation is the same. The Mark is an identifier. The Beast is the anti-Christ. This is known."
At this The Regus stopped, his voice was only slightly raised, but if he was the steel before, now he was the forge.
"Known? Known! You speak about what is Known? That which you consider to be "known" can fit into a thimble amidst the ocean of what there is to be learned.
"Known is simply a comfort to the lazy. Those who won't or can't stretch their minds to dismiss the impossible.
"Start over. Read it. Again!"
With that word he slammed his hand down on the table.
Punit jumped, he had not felt the other man walk up beside him.
The Regus then gently opened the texts again and pointed with his long index finger to the passage Punit had been reading.
"Again," his voice was steel again.
Punit started to read again, but his temper was up, and he turned to lash out at the older man.
"Foolishness. Absolute foolishness," he declared, an edge to his voice, "There are people dying out there even as we speak. Men, women, children, Atharim ...dying at the hands of make-believe monsters. And you sit here safe. Pushing your books. Bullying me, and countless others. I have work to do. Out there."
With that Punit pushed back from the table and prepared to stand. Anger flooded his face and his eyes blazed in insubordination.
He didnt make it out of the chair, as The Regus's rock hard hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him in his seat.
"You are angered. This outburst will be forgiven. Return to the texts. We will continue to study these writings. You will learn the connections with these works and the prophecies of our own Atharim."
"I said I was done. Sir. I have no use for anymore of this redundancy."
"You are done when I say your done. Do you really think YOU are in control here? Do you not know that anything you have done, I had done before you were born? Any kills you made, any assignments completed, hunts you have accomplished ...I have done ten-fold?
"Do you think this is an exercise in vanity?" His voice raised on the last sentence. The forge was flamed again.
"Arithmos tou Thēriou. Literally number of the beast in Greek. But now extrapolate. Think. What else could this relate to. You. Are. Atharim. Use your mind, there should be no limitation on your ability to analyze and find a solution"
Punit's body crumpled in his chair. His resistance seemingly evaporated at the onslaught of the older man.
"I...I....don't know. I can't think," he stammered. Days of exhaustion washing over him.
"You can. You will. Arithmos when plural is Arithmoi, Numbers, also the name of the third book of the Hebrew Testament. To the ancient civilizations numbers were simply symbols, nothing more. Symbols that indicated something of greater value. A mistranslation and the word number became a fixture of the prophecy, when the more generic symbol may have been intended. If we continue to look at the connotation and overlap from the original language to the vernacular, we get the more common rendering of "mark". There is a reason our forefathers carried particular words into their translation. Mark can mean sign, sigil, the act of being marked ... Or even "to brand".
"If we then look at the word beast, and it is routinely translated as beast, what do we have?", The Regus waited with patience.
Punit gritted his teeth. His caution evaporated as he thought of the seemingly futileness of this. "I. Don't. Care.", Punit said and looked boldly into the face of The Regus.
He never saw the back of the other man's fist collide with his face, so fast was The Regus.
Punit fell out of the chair and landed on the floor at the feet of The Regus.
"You will know respect. You will know your place. And you will know this work and this world is not a plaything to amuse you or get you laid after telling adventure stories."
These last words were louder and were emphasized with a swift kick to Punit's side.
"Translate this, Great Hunter of Rakshasa.
'ita bestia vulnerata est. patefacta, non mortuos. oraque ultra recognitionem, adhuc bestiam superstite'," The Regus said with cold derision.
Punit was in pain and tried to speak, but before he could begin to translate the Latin words, The Regus threw a scroll down before him. He saw the Hebrew phrase:
וכך היא החיה מצולקת. הניח פתוח, עדיין לא מת. מצולק ללא הכר, עדיין החיה שורדת

"Would you be quicker if I spoke it in your own Malay?
Oleh itu, adalah binatang yang berparut. diletakkan terbuka, tetapi tidak mati. berparut di luar pengiktirafan, tetapi binatang itu bertahan"
"Thus is the beast scarred. Laid open, yet not dead. Scarred beyond recognition, yet the beast survives?"
"Correct," The Regus said as he extended a hand to Punit, and helped him to his feet.
"And now, think, my young friend. How can these be linked. Eschatology is simply the bastardized understanding of our mission and our works."
"With all due respect, sir," the sarcasm as heavy as the blood on Punit's lips, "I believe I made it clear, I had no more interest in this conversation."
Punit elbowed past The Regus and made his way towards the door. He could not believe he had wasted a week of his life, for this. For endless speculations and translations. He had monsters to kill. People to protect.
"Mr. Tengku." The Regus said in the iciest tone Punit had heard. Chill bumps suddenly ran down his neck.
"Turn around Mr. Tengku. Your mission is here. Your blood is hot, but you still have work to do."
Ironically, Punit felt as if his blood had turned to ice. He had never felt this inferior or afraid. He knew how to deal with fear however, you kept moving forward. So he took two steps towards the door.
"Fool!" The Regus breathed under his breath.
Punit made to run, to get out of this man's presence as quickly as possible. He was unnerved, which unnerved him even more.
He made it to the doorway just as The Regus caught up with him and caught him around the neck. A sharp twist as his elbow went around Punit's neck, followed by pressure and a crack, and the young Atharim's lifeless body went limp and fell to the floor.
"Damn!" The Regus said, as hot tears glistened in his eyes.
"Why did it have to be so hard? Why did they have to resist and fight. Why were they so arrogant?", he thought.
The tears dried before they hit his cheeks. They were not for the talented man lying dead at his feet, they were for this organization he led.
They must be shaped to his will. They must become the arrow in his quiver.
The man at his feet was a casualty of a greater war, that was all. A discard. After all, a weapon that will not kill where you aim, serves no purpose.

The Regus stepped over the body and out the door. Another would soon come, and he would be ready to start again. Stoking the forge, over and over, until the weapons he needed were fashioned by his hands.
Edited by Regus, Aug 5 2013, 05:29 AM.

Tony Soloyov

Age: 32

Occupation: Drunkard and 'teacher'.

Appearance: Tall and stocky bordering on fat. Pale with long blonde locks, beard and a red nose from the cold. He is unkempt and could be mistaken for a homeless man, but has a strong face under the grime.

Mentality: A drunkard, cynical and depressed. He has lost almost everything in his life and has given up on hope of a normal life. He has a kind heart broken down from years of pain and loss.

Biography:

Tony Soloyov was born into a prominent family in Moscow. Both his parents were government officials with high positions.

He was raised as an only child - his brother a full 20 years older had already left when Tony was born - and was a darling among the rich and famous of the CCD. From a young age he showed great promise and charm - raised as a perfect prodigy.

At 23, he was well on his way to surpassing his both of his parents' importance and renown as a hand-picked protégée of one of the members of the Sphere.

That was until he developed the 'Sickness'. It was new, specially in men, but the upper echelons knew of it. He tried to dismiss it as a bad flu, however, it could not last.

His first experience channelling, unfortunately, came in the presence of his mentor of the Sphere. He was invited to dinner at the family mansion. It ended with the house burned down and Tony unconscious for the next two days.

When he awoke, he found he was being sought by the Custody of Enforcement. Fearing for his life, he ran.

In the proceeding year he watched in hiding the majority of his family hunted, questioned and disappear. The only remaining family he has is his estranged older brother who was not in Moscow at the time.

He fled deeper into the Undercity seeking seclusion. Here he met 12 others who had survived the 'Sickness' just like him. Together, they jokingly referred to themselves as the Cabal and explored their powers in an endeavour to learn just what it was they had been born with.

Little is known of the next 8 years. Tony's memory of the events is cloudy, and that which he remembers, he doesn't think about, much less talk about.

All that is known is that when he received Michael Vellas a year ago, he was the last surviving member of the 13 who called themselves the 'Cabal'.

Time to pick up the pieces.
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

When I woke up this morning, the country was in chaos. A disaster the scale of Dayton, OH has never been seen before. Now is a time for mourning, and a time for action however. In the past few hours I have seen a lot of talk directed towards seceding to the CCD over this: that is a bad idea.

Forty years ago, people used to play a guessing game of sorts. Whenever an act of terrorism or mass shooting happened, they would say "well, I wonder how much freedom the government's gonna take away this time." Don't give up your freedom for this, it's not worth it. Instead, it's time to help the survivors get back on their feet.

The Red Cross is already on the ground on the outskirts of Ohio providing people with medical care. Send them money and supplies if you can, they're going to need everything from water to antibiotics. And if you are in one of the surrounding states, they're really hurting for volunteers right now.

The national guard was deployed within a couple hours, and has been operating closer to the center of the incident, and so far evacuation has been very successful. Nearly every living person has been evacuated from the immediate area around the reactors and that evacuation bubble is expanding rapidly.

They have been organizing field hospitals and sending regular patrols through the areas still safe enough to travel, making sure to pick up any survivors they can. Army National Guard Lt. Randall Jones had this to say: "All options are on the table to get people out of the area. We have more than 200,000 men and women on the ground right now." The amount of guardsmen deployed in Ohio dwarfs the amount deployed during Hurricane Katrina almost two-to-one.

Ohio, and by extension this nation, will never be the same again. Now it's time to pick up the pieces, and move on. Mourn the dead, care for the living and don't let this pitfall stop us in our tracks. We still have a lot of work to do.

<small>Editor's note: Nolan Trace has donated $5,000,000 to the Dayton, OH relief fund. If you would like to help out as well, a link can be found here
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<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag: Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

Name: Armande Nicodemus
Title: The Regus
Age: 61

Origin: Syracuse, Sicily
Current: Moscow

Occupation:
Regus of the Atharim
Guardian of The Remnant, Vicar of Iscariot, The Oroboros
Nominally: Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter

Psychological Profile:
Driven, passionate, fiery. Sharp of mind and able to focus, against all distractions, on chosen purpose or will. Not trusting of others, yet incredibly charming when need requires, but even then, he doesn't smile much. Serious. Focused cannot be overstated as a character trait. Incredibly smart, and knowledgeable. Is almost pathological in his intent to know and learn. Will study, dig, research, inquire and gather any and all information regardless of personal cost or health. Expects obedience and focus in subordinates. Very little patience, and definitely not one to double cross. Favorite mantra: "Forgiveness is for children, Forgetting is for the Simple, Work is for Mortals, Knowledge is for the Divine."

Physical Profile:
Average height, lean but not slim, hard but not thick, muscular, but not buff. Natural Auburn hair, now greying with streaks of white. Cold, grey eyes. Serious in face, but not grim. Sleek of style. Nothing flashy, but nothing out of place. Penchant for wearing Grey, Black or Brown, never wears color. Confident stride with a smooth gait, yet he walks much faster than it appears. When watching him, he is seemingly walking calmly at a leisurely pace, yet people who walk with him often look like their rushing.

Chronicle Vitae:
Armande Nicodemus was born to a Prostitute in Syracuse, Sicily. He grew up poor and a child of the streets. His mother died when he was 12, old enough for him to make it on his own, but young enough to still have his innocence. He lived on the streets for a year, staying with her prostitute friends, until he was taken in by a priest, Father Joseph. The priest began to spend time and teach young Armande and was continually impressed with his intelligence and how quickly he learned. Armande soaked up everything like a sponge. Within another year, he was caught up on the basics, and his mentor began teaching him more advanced subjects. He became fluent in Latin, Hebrew, Greek, Russian, Mandarin and English, as well as his native Italian and was able to read ancient Hebrew and Aramaic and Koine Greek. He learned calculus and physics as well as history and theology.



One day, Father Joseph was so impressed he took him to the Library of Syracuse, where a stout, old woman questioned him for the better part of two hours on ancient sources and myths. After having him read, translate and analyze the original scrolls. After this experience, he was sent to live with the old woman, who had him work in the library every morning, study every afternoon and oddly enough, taught him martial arts and hand to hand combat every evening. She was only frail to the unprepared observer. Once engaged, her short stature and dowdy librarian suits hid a muscular and lithe body. Armande studied and practiced with her from the time he was 14 until 17.

At 17, he was sent to study at Hebrew University in Jerusalem to get a degree in Ancient Religions and Mathematics. While in Jerusalem he stayed with a conclave of Mar Thoma Monks who put him through the same rigorous training and routine the old librarian had. Having been raised with nothing, the ascetic life was not unbearable. He graduated with both degrees in three years, and was looking forward to where he would go for graduate work when the Monks told him he was going to Oman. There he would live and have additional training.



He traveled with a group of Bedouins and learned Arabic as well as the rural desert life. They expanded upon his physical training, and taught him the use of weapons to compliment and aid his fighting. For two solid years, he trained his body over his mind. After two years, the Bedouin chief told him he was going to America to study at Harvard University.

Armande dutifully went, carrying his few possessions in a knapsack. Upon arrival in Boston he met his benefactor, the Priest from Syracuse, Father Joseph, who took him to a small convent where he was to stay for his duration. He was told he had been accepted into Harvard School of Divinity where he would study antiquities and archeology as well. At the age of 25, Armande graduated from Harvard with two Doctorates, one in Theology and one in Archeology. He then went on to study a semester at the University of Heidelberg before attending the Pontifical Gregorian University.

It was here Armande fell in love with two people; the Founder of the Society of Jesus, St. Ignatius of Loyola, and a young acolyte, Gregorio Vitti. Gregorio convinced Armande to join the Priesthood so they could be together. It was a wonderful time for Armande as he learned to love after years of doing without. He and Gregorio carried on their secret affair in the heart of The Vatican. A season of bliss and happiness that Armande had never known. However, their time was short-lived as after only 6 months, Gregorio was found hanging in his dormitory, a victim of an apparent suicide.



Armande was told he would be released from his vows as a Jesuit, and was sent to the Greek Orthodox Monastery, Holy Mt. Athos to study and meditate.

Armande was sad, but not devastated. He had learned that people you love do not last in your life. His only constant was knowledge. He was 27. Upon his return to Rome, he was told by a Jesuit Monsignor, who had become his advisor, that he would be leaving to go to Cairo University after his current semester.

Armande, who still had no attachments went without question. His whole life was being mapped out for him, and he was dutiful and even grateful for his opportunities. He missed Gregorio, and longed for him, but his books and his studies filled this void. At Cairo University, Armande went on archeological digs and studied even more. He began to learn Coptic and to study and read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. It was on one of these archaeology digs he was abducted one night.



When he woke up he was in a tent. He was bound hand and foot. In front of him were 6 people, the librarian from his youth, the Chief of the Bedouins, his Jesuit advisor and 3 younger people he did not know, one was a tall, toned young woman, about his own age with long red hair and plump lips. The Bedouin Chief told him they were a faction of a secret and ancient group known as The Atharim, or The Remnant. The Remnant of what they did not know, but they had a purpose. His benefactor, the late Father Joseph had been a friend of The Atharim and had brought him to the Librarian, because he knew Armande could be a valuable asset one day. They explained that the Atharim were not all known to each other, but some worked in tandem to accomplish their mission of protecting mankind from monsters, myths, legends and End Times prophecies. They explained that every bit of his training so far had been at the direction of The Atharim, and now, he had a choice to make. He could choose to be a part of their secret order, or hunted and killed. Armande made the choice stoically and without reservation. He underwent their days long secret ceremony and ordination, including receiving his tale-tell Ouroboros tattoo, and began his life as the 7th member of their faction of Atharim.

He accepted assignment after assignment. Using his physical strength, martial skills, education and knowledge and razor-sharp mind to accomplish every task set before him.

He saw the Librarian die fighting a specter of the night, and walked in on his Jesuit Advisor being disembowled by a creature that seemed to escape through a crack in the wall. He and the young woman, Jova al'Tiar became lovers and spent a decade and a half in a torrid relationship until she disappeared one day, never to return from an assignment.

It was this second loss of love that convinced Armande he was destined to never be attached to another person while on Earth. Atharim described death as "waking from the dream", perhaps when he awoke at some point in the future, Gregorio or Jova or both would be waiting for him, but until that point, he would covet and desire only his knowledge and his passion for his life as an Atharim.

Armande was 51 when he was summoned to Rome. He had an appointment he was told in the Vatican City. Upon arrival, he was abducted, for now the second time in his life. Upon being released discovered he was in the very presence of The Holy Father and 2 other people who recognized as Atharim from their Ouroboros tattoos.
Candles and ancient wooden chairs filled the windowless space. in the middle was a table with antiquated scrolls and manuscripts upon it.



He was being chosen, he was told, because of his stellar intellect, pursuit of knowledge and deadly accuracy at completing missions, to enter a new life and take up a new challenge. The choice was the same as when he first received his own tattoo ...accept, or be hunted. This time there was more hesitation and trepidation on Armande's part. He was deadly as an assassin and hunter. He had seen living nightmares. What would running from being hunted for the rest of his life bring that could be more dangerous that what he had already experienced? And yet, there was more knowledge than he could ever dream awaiting him if he only agreed.

The Holy Father explained that since the days of Constantine the Great and Pope Sylvester I, the Roman Pope has had a hand in acknowledging the choice of The Regus, the legendary leader of The Atharim. And from that time, The Regus was the final arbiter of the selection of the Roman
Catholic Pope, Bishop of Rome.

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"My child, Armande. The most famous leader of your organization was none other than Judas the Iscariot. You know your order exists to protect mankind from the physical manifestations of Apollyon. The Iscariot was convinced the wandering itinerant preacher from Nazareth was the Apollyon made flesh and was going to bring about the End Times, and the Next Age. Following his attempt to destroy a man he was convinced was a Destructor, a God-Man. We, the Early Church strove to discover who he represented. The legends of his 30 pieces of silver and shameful demise were created to hide his true identity. The Romans knew The Regus and detested him. They set him up in conjunction with the Jewish Sanhedrin. The world mourns one great betrayal on Good Friday, but there were two people betrayed in that act, Jesus and Judas.

The Atharim were shamed by his failure and the betrayal of the Jewish Sanhedrin which had entered into agreement with The Atharim to rid themselves of a threat. They were humbled as an organization and kept themselves incognito for over three centuries. Nursing the wounds their leader had allowed to be inflcted on them. They chose Judas's successor and successors, keeping their focus on the signs that would shepherd in the real End Times.

Meanwhile, for centuries Church Fathers searched for the truth behind the betrayal of our Lord. Finally, with the backing and influence of Emperor Constantine, it was discovered that Judas led a group of followers, dedicated to protecting mankind from prophecies and myths marking the End of Days. We, the Church, could not let that knowledge out. WE were the Protectors of the Souls of Men. The presence of another group, possibly rival organization, determined to protecting the existence and survival of mankind, MUST be associated with our Spiritual purpose or be destroyed.

It was under Pope Sylvester I that first contact was made with the then Regus. Pope Sylvester arranged to have him kidnapped and presented him with the information that had been discovered. Sylvester told him the future of The Atharim were in his hands. Two things must happen, or the Church would annihilate every member and wipe the remnant off the face of the Earth. First, The Regus had to be integrated and associated with the Church. And secondly, the Atharim were too closely knit. They would not need to disband, but they could not assemble in congregate anymore. Your Regus did the noble thing, and saved your Remnant from calamity, but he set you on the path to where you are today, disconnected factions, secret from themselves. Fulfilling clandestine duties, with nary a coordinating effort. This has been the way, even though power has waxed and waned through millennia between our various and diverse predecessors.

Sylvester was the first to honor your Regus in this way. And that has continued to this day. To this moment. To you sitting here with me, just as your Predecessor's Predecessor sat here when I first found I had the opportunity to be chosen. What is said here, must never part your lips.
You may notice I alone represent the Holy Mother Church. Ever since Sylvester erected Old St. Peter's Basilica, The Regus has officially housed in the Church office of Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter. But only The Regus and Il Papa know of that relationship. Your two comrades here have chosen to be a part of the ancient ritual of selecting their new leader. Should you accept, they will die. This will preserve that only you and I shall ever know our connection and relationship. The same is done when my predecessors were chosen, and will be done when my successor's time is nigh.

Decade and decade for millennia, such is the waltz we dance to preserve mankind. WE fighting a spiritual warfare for the souls of men, YOU fighting a temporal one for their minds and survival.

Do you accept Armande Nicodemus? Do you swear to lose your name and soul? To become The Ouroboros? The Vicar of Iscariot? The Guardian of the Remnant? The Regus of the Atharim?"